


a fool to the bitter end

by Lessandra



Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Actor!Milt, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Milt is both cheeky and self-deprecating, Relationship Is Hard, Russ has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, Which is saying something, and committed certain heresies i’m sure, but these guys fail a lot at it in any universe, i know i personally overuse this tag as it is, just ordinary Battle Creek shenanigans, means that if Milt’s an actor I felt like I could include a few other changes of my own, that’s exactly what this guy does he’s a born liar, what does that mean you ask?, which let’s be honest isn’t that much of a stretch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lessandra/pseuds/Lessandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Have we got a murder?” Milt asks him, cocking his head with eager curiosity.</p>
  <p>“<em><b>We</b></em> don’t get anything!” Russ snaps, waiting for the address impatiently. “<em><b>I</b></em> am the Detective here. You’re just a… fool playing dress-up.” He waves his hand dismissively and starts for the door.</p>
  <p>“And this is exactly why I jumped at this opportunity,” Milt interrupts, following him. “I wanna see how policework is done. Just one case.”</p>
  <p>Russ glares. “No. No case.”</p>
  <p>“You can’t actually stop me from going.”</p>
  <p>“Yeah I can. It’s called being charged on the obstruction of justice.”</p>
  <p>“I paid a lot of money to your department. Pretty sure no one else will mind if I snoop around for a couple of days,” Milt says, kicking the floor with his foot in the <em><b>worst</b></em> play at coyness this planet has ever seen, and honestly, how is this man even an actor?</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	a fool to the bitter end

**Author's Note:**

> From otpprompts on tumblr: _Imagine Person A being an actor/actress at a little known show signing autographs at a con, and Person B has been standing in line for 15 minutes for a friend who weren’t able to show up. But when they get to the table and hold out the DVD their friend want autographed, they begin to stutter because “Oh no, they’re cute/hot!”_
> 
> The prompt was for the Small Fandom Fest, and even though I knew I'd never meet the deadline, I wanted to write this so much. :3 So here it goes.  
> The prompt belongs to the wonderfully creative [Casey_Wolfe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Casey_Wolfe).

It might be faster to just say _Yes_ when someone approaches him with another inane question, except there lies the danger that he’d be considered more approachable than he already isn’t, and what is it about Comic-Con anyway that makes people assume he’s looking to start a conversation?

“Are you supposed to be Agent Kay?” someone asks.

_Sod off,_ he wants to say, and _Do I look to be wearing douchey sunglasses?_ But all he does is sets his jaw forward and says, “No,” and “Bye,” with more vehemence than deserved.

In the last hour he has been mistaken for various attorneys of various origins, agents (most of them belonging to organizations not of this world, he’s sure), mafia, professional killers, the Transporter, and half the main cast of _Reservoir Dogs_.

The line couldn’t start moving fast enough.

_“Russ, please. You know I have to study for my LSATs,” Holly tells him a day earlier, and that’s what starts it._

_Well, actually, what starts it is Font being late to their night out, and when he arrives, the first thing he says is, “I can’t make it to Detroit next week.”_

_Which produces broken-hearted, bordering on panicked ‘oooh’s and ‘aaah’s that go completely over Russ’s head, and he’s not particularly keen to find out why until he finds himself being volunteered to go in Font’s stead._

_“Why me?” he protests, and then figures it sounds too much like a “Sure, but…” rather than a “No freaking way”, and hurriedly adds, “No. I’m not going to your stupid conversion, conjunction, constellation, whatever, just over some—what is it this time, anyway?”_

_Their explanation is incensed and passionate, which would have been charming if it weren’t also all-over-the-place unhelpful. From what he can gather, it’s like this: there’s this crime-mystery-something show, “you know the one, Russ, remember that guy, with the crazy hair?” (Font says his name aside, for the others’ benefit, because they know who everyone is, and honestly, it’s annoying.) “You said you knew him?” And Russ really, **really** doesn’t remember, but okay, suppose there’s this show he’s supposed to know but doesn’t. What’s happening is it is launching a sister project. “NCIS to its JAG,” he attempts to say, and they pull faces at him, “No. Please, Russ. That was like last century.” And there was a guy—a guest appearance on the original that’s gonna be the star of this new show, and “Russ, you’ve gotta see it, it’s amazing, it’s gonna plow its way right to the top, and he’s spectacular, he’s got this presence, it’s gonna be so huge you have no idea,” and they’re right. He has no idea. Nor does he particularly want to get any ideas about it. The only serials he’s keeping tabs on are serial offenders._

_“And why can’t you go, exactly?” He gives Font a vicious look because way to obligate him._

_“Had to use up my vacation days to coincide with Kat’s,” he mumbles apologetically. “Goose isn’t letting me go anywhere for the foreseeable future.”_

_“I have a training seminar,” Jacocks says, giving Font an equally cutting glare, because that’s something she must have shared beforehand and in good time, and everyone was counting on Font._

_“Russ?” Font says pleadingly._

_“Don’t look at me. What’s so important that you’re gonna miss there anyway?”_

_“Only some very exclusive pre-release stuff!” Font says in an offended tone, like that’s supposed to be important. Russ sneers and takes a sip of his drink. “Hey, it’s bad enough we’re not gonna see him, ruins our streak with the franchise, we’ve been to every reveal. But the poster is Struzan’s limited, it’s like a Holy Grail.”_

_“Yeah, I really don’t care. I’m not doing it.”_

And here he is, Motor City Comic-Con, and he’s doing it. And his friends are assholes.

Milt Chamberlain, whom they are all swooning over—which Russ finds somewhat grating in Holly, but that’s his own damned problem, a little embarrassing in Font, but he’s also kinda used to how over-eager he can get, and more than a little creepy in Jacocks who doesn’t swoon for anyone, except maybe for how square and chiseled Sigourney Weaver’s jawline is—turns out to be a man like any other. In a very conveyer-produced sense of the word. He’s tall and good-looking in a way that’s in high demand in Hollywood these days, and is getting on Russ’s nerves: the same pleasant smiles, sleek, forgettable faces with a patina of gloss that leaves a sickening saccharine taste in his mouth, but is there anything behind that face? Russ increasingly doubts it.

He watches the man smile and joke with everyone who comes up for an autograph, both heartfelt and politely removed, and thinks that he looks like he’s running for senate, or something. He’s got a face for a governor.

“Whom should I make it out to?” Milt asks him, smiling in a way that Russ find deeply grating.

“Um. Uh.” He freezes for a second because of it, and the man looks up at him. “Holly,” he blurts out, and Font and Jacocks will probably murder him for this brain-freeze. “Holly Dale.”

Milt arches his eyebrow. “I take it _you’re_ not Holly? Unless your parents were really _unique_.”

“It’s for a friend,” Russ replies, and thinks reflexively that _‘unique’_ is certainly one word for his mother.

“Must be some friend,” the man says, looking at his pen critically and substituting it for a marker. “For you to endure this standing in line for her and everything, I mean.”

Russ doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say in response to that. Doesn’t know how you talk to an actor in general, particularly when you’re not diseased with whatever euphoria’s happening all around him. He shrugs, squares his shoulders, puts his hands on his hips uncomfortably. Milt gives him a brief sweeping glance when he shifts, then does a double take, and his hand freezes over the poster once again.

“Is that real?” he asks, leaning forward a little, and Russ looks down at himself in a panic because _what? what does he mean?_

“What?”                                      

“The badge,” the man nods at his belt, and _oh, that’s what he was looking at._ “Or is this like a part of your costume?” He looks up at Russ with a small smile.

“My c—?” Russ nearly chokes because what is wrong with this bunch, honestly! “Do I look like I’m in a costume?” Russ forgets to curb his volume, and thinks he might sound a little too antagonistic.

Milt hikes his eyebrows up, finding his attitude baffling and why wouldn’t he be in a costume is apparently the general consensus. Russ rolls his eyes, rakes his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, no, _yes_ it’s a real badge, I’m a cop.”

For some reason it makes the actor laugh. “A cop watching a cop show.” He sounds pleased, like there’s a compliment in it somewhere.

“I’m not _watching_ it,” Russ objects.

“Well, yeah, I mean, it’s not out until autumn, no one’s watching it _yet_. But the parent show. Right?” Milt says amenably, picking up the marker again.

“I’m not watching _any_ show, I’m here for a _friend!_ ” Russ explodes, and it has been a tiring day, and a tiring waiting in line, and a stressful task, and people keep assuming asinine things about him, and suddenly he _snaps_ in a really loud fashion, and realizes he’s making a scene. “Uhm.” Milt looks a little startled by the tone he’s taken, and when he peeks behind his own shoulder, the people in the earshot distance seem a little scandalized as well. Russ closes his eyes momentarily, and then decides screw this shit. “I’m—You know what, I’m gonna go, just take this here—” he tries to snatch the poster back from Milt’s table, unsigned.

“No, no, wait,” the actor stops him, and hurriedly pops the marker open. “My bad. I held everyone up.” And wow, he’s excusing himself now, like Russ is just this giant baby, or something? “Didn’t expect to see a cop here.” The signature is finally there and Russ snags the thing back unceremoniously, in a rush to be anywhere but here. “Man’s a cop!” Milt announces louder, to the people standing in line, impatient and miffed. “A real one, a proper hero!” He even claps, hands raised above his head, and some people from the crowd join in disjointedly.

“Oh my fucking—” Russ grits under the breath, hurrying away, and this is the most excruciatingly uncomfortable Russ has been in a while. He’s making his way through the crowd avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Bye!” Milt Chamberlain shouts after him, and Russ really wishes the ground would swallow up one of them right this very instant.

 

 

~***~

 

 

On the way back, he’s fuming for hours, reliving the conversation in his head in a frustrating merry-go-round of equal parts anger and embarrassment.

_A cop watching a cop show,_ the man said, and _Didn’t expect to see a cop here,_ and what Russ should have said was, _Really? That’s surprising to you? Only the favorite Hollywood profession. I think half the younger guys on my force joined because of John McClane. It’s all we ever get to watch these days is more cops,_ and what would he say to that, Russ wonders, that would have put him in his place, he bets, and why didn’t he think of that sooner.

Didn’t think of holding his tongue either, he thinks bitterly.

“How did it go?” Font greets him cheerfully, a little eagerly, opening the door. They are convening at his place tonight.

“It was a nightmare,” he says, shoving the poster tube into his hands. “You owe me so much paperwork for this.” And Font laughs, and there, he’s good at banter, and Russ lets out an exasperated sigh, and then lets it go.

 

 

~***~

 

 

_“Well look at that. Tin Man’s got a heart after all,” she says with a sardonic smile. “Doesn’t it go against some rigid code of honor for you to let him run away like that?”_

_He turns his head. Smiles at her patronizingly because she really doesn’t get it, doesn’t get **him** , but smiles nonetheless because he’s glad for today, and he doesn’t care what wrong opinions about him she harbors._

_“Don’t you know?” he says, in a tone only half-joking. “Beneath every cynic is a frustrated romantic.”_

“Oh, he did **_not_** just say that,” Russ scoffs. “Come on! Who writes their scripts, Hallmark?”

“Shut up,” Font drawls in a fond rebuke, nudging him with an elbow. Russ grouses and falls silent.

The things is, he didn’t mean to get sucked into this. It’s how most of their gettogethers normally go: someone brings a movie, and the three of them have their little gathering of Club Cinephile, and Russ works on his cases that he takes home, occasionally raising his head and being peripherally aware of what’s happening on the screen, making caustic remarks about it.

“You should have really gone into literature, like Mrs. Zuransky always thought you should,” Font keeps remarking to him from time to time. “Could have been a critic. Reviewed movies. Made directors sweat like you do perps.”

“Maybe when I’m retired,” Russ generally bites back. “I could start a blog.”

“If you knew the end of a browser from your own ass,” Jacocks snorts, and Holly slaps her arm beratingly.

What happens instead is he gets curious this time around. Probably because he’s seen the man first-hand. And then, well—it doesn’t suck. He can sort of see the appeal, he guesses. If you look past the occasional pompous histrionics, and sporadic ridiculousness of Hollywood science, which his friends are immune to but he really isn’t, it’s actually pretty decent. Maybe more than decent.

And Milt Chamberlain is a better actor than Russ has judged him to be based on his looks alone. It’s a little weird, seeing him on the screen after a face-to-face, his sharp eyes and arrogant smirk, and Russ has a hard time letting go of his impression of Chamberlain the actor to actually root for him as Mr. Sharp-Dressed Agent the hero protagonist. He looks different, too, although Russ can’t put his fingers on the how.

“You’re actually enjoying yourself, aren’t you,” Font says quietly.

“No,” Russ denies blatantly with a crooked grin, and Holly cheers in triumph.

 

 

~***~

 

 

“You didn’t take this camera from the precinct, did you?” Russ asks flatly.

“Nah, man. I took it off of Funkhauser,” Font says.

This piece of news isn’t totally confidence inspiring.

“Did **_he_** take it from the precinct?” Russ arches an eyebrow skeptically. “Because if this thing dies in my hand, I’m not gonna run around like my ass is on fire, looking for something to shoot your goddamned panel with.” He pulls a face. “Ugh. My mouth hurts even saying this.”

In retrospect, he should have expected that caving once would put him under the yoke with them for life, which is how he finds himself agreeing to another run at this whole convention thing—this time advertised as less stressful, no unnecessary interactions with people, no standing in line, talking to anyone. He just has to sit there with a camcorder and, well, _record_.

Naturally, the things dies as soon as he has the foresight to check if it’s in working order. And people ask why he hates tech so much. Because tech hates him back is why, plain and simple. He has a thought to call Font up, ream his ass out for this, but his phone dies too. Figures. Instead he spends a fair amount of time running around, as predicted, and spends an indecent amount of cash on a working camcorder which are being sold here for thrice the price. (He tries flashing a badge with no apparent success, because the vendor just gives him a languid stare and says, “And I’m Sam Winchester,” which is _nonsense_ , and Russ’s hands itch to bust him for whatever minor offence, show him how he’s _not a real cop,_ but that’s just pettiness talking, and he’s got other things to worry about.)

The panel speaks of things Russ knows little to nothing about and makes a stubborn effort not to learn anything new. Thinks about nodding off, actually: yesterday’s stakeout is beginning to wear him down. The eye of his camera keeps circling back to the only person he knows on the show.

The audience is tightly packed but small. He blames that fact for what happens. As his collegue is replying, Milt is watching her, and then his eyes start roaming over the people with a pleased, genial smile, and pass over him fleetingly. Then he frowns and looks back, and locks eyes with Russ, lifts his chin up in recognition with a twitch of not-quite-a-smile in the corner of his mouth. Russ’s shoulders sag, and he has a sinking feeling of being cornered.

He half expects the bastard to speak up, say something profoundly embarrassing like he did the last time, because that’s how it’s done in the fucking movies, isn’t it, you bring attention to people in these profoundly uncomfortable ways that beat any naked-in-highschool dreams, all these scenes that make you cover your face in front of the silver screen because _stop_. _No._ It’s _humiliating._

Milt Chamberlain manages to restrain his need for theatrics, only levels him with a bright stare, but then another person rises and asks their question, and he turns to them with his full and undivided attention, and Russ exhales and tries to convince himself that he’s out of the woods.

 

 

~***~

 

 

“Officer.”

Russ stops dead in his tracks and stares upward at the beaming face of Milt Chamberlain who materializes in front of him from out of nowhere, a baseball cap hanging low over his face, concealing him from the eagle-sharp eyes of the fans. He looks behind Russ in an over-the-top checking-for-danger spy-movie gesture, then drags him back into the audience through the _‘Personnel only’_ door, away from the mass of people.

“What are you doing?” Russ growls, looking around. The room is nearly empty, the last of the attendants trickling out, and no one is paying any attention to the two people remaining at the panel tables. A security guy, built like a rottweiler, is watching them from a respectful distance.

“Back again, huh,” Milt says, moving back to where he was sitting at the panel, and grabs a bottle. He drinks thirstily, and Russ stares at him stupidly and doesn’t know what he is supposed to be saying. The camera is hanging guiltily from his hands like some damning evidence, and he hurries to stuff it into his bag.

“So I guess you’re kind of a fan after all,” Milt smirks, watching him.

“What?” Russ squints at him, and doesn’t know what seems so compromising to him about what he was doing.

“I don’t remember everyone who visits these things, you understand. They are all amazing people, and lovely, but there are just so many. After a while the faces do wear off. But then I was looking around the audience, and lo and behold.” He makes a pause and stares at him to make a point with a little smirk. “There’s _that_ asshole.”

“This is for a friend,” Russ says, lifting his bag, and thinks, who even says _‘lo and behold’_ , what a douchebag, and doesn’t notice the _‘asshole’_ part until it’s too late to bristle at it.

Milt smiles with patent disbelief. “Right. Your girlfriend who lives in Canada.” And that Russ _does_ bristle at. “Next you’re gonna tell me again how you haven’t seen the show.”

“I haven’t!” Russ insists, even though that’s not precisely the case any longer, but damn if he’s gonna cope to it, and why is he in this insane and stupid situation anyway? “But I can see that what we’ve got here is a failure to communicate,” he mutters sardonically.

Unexpectedly, Milt laughs. “Is that an _ancient_ Paul Newman reference? I’m beginning to have my doubts, have you even turned on the TV in this century?”

Russ lets out a weary sigh and thinks _I had it turned on for me,_ considering his friends’ habits, but that would be a weird thing to say, so he doesn’t. His silence instead looks incriminating, and Milt snorts and says, “Wait, really?”

“Oh, screw you,” Russ feels his hackles rising again. “That I don’t like your fancy glossy show doesn’t mean I don’t know how the remote works, Jesus.”

“So you have seen it,” Milt arches an eyebrow.

“God. Yes!” Russ exclaims, cornered, because it seems too late to back down. “Wasn’t a personal choice,” he spits out.

“Oh, you were forced into it, were you? Some bizarre form of torture that must have been.” Milt continues to look and smile in the utmost patronizing fashion.

“What do you want with me?” Russ demands, tense and impatient.

The man’s smile spreads, turns curious. “What did you think? Cop to cop.”

And that does him in, finally, as the remnants of his sanity and patience cave completely and escape before he can put a muzzle on it, and he sputters, “Cop to—? You’re _not_ a cop. You’re a— _clown._ Playing pretend. And you’re not very good at it either. Fancy tech and stupid gimmicks? Are not police-work, and what are you even doing there, you think that’s solving cases? You are. Ridiculous. Arrogant, inflated, full of yourself, and that’s all make-belief, and real life doesn’t work like that!”

He exhales, and then shuts his eyes, mortified, and “Shit,” he curses under his breath. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, _again,_ and he kinda moved back and forth between the actor and the character there a little bit, too, and way to handle yourself like a fucking grown-up. “I—” he starts, and stops, doesn’t find it in him to apologize either. What could he possibly say anyway? Milt Chamberlain is looking at him with veiled astonishment. “Shit,” Russ says again and looks away. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t go, he nearly _runs_ , cursing under his breath. What is it with this guy, this _actor_ that he manages to push all of his buttons and get him so unhinged in a matter of minutes, then turn him into a parody of himself.

 

 

~***~

 

 

_“Russ!”_ Guziewicz has a tone that she uses with him sometimes—this snappy, upset, principal-of-a-school tone that tells him: he’s in trouble.

He nearly spills his coffee on his shirt and sets the mug back on the table heavily. Funkhauser throws him a _What the hell did you do, man?_ look. Russ shrugs, because _No idea._ After some deliberation he picks his half-full cup and throws it into the trash bin. They really need a better coffee machine—this one’s beginning to taste like something _died_ inside of theirs.

“What?” he barks curtly, ducking into Guziewicz’s office. She looks at him with a scrutinizing curiosity.

“You tell me. I got a call this morning. From an agent.”

“An FBI agent?” Russ is puzzled, and still can’t see how this has anything to do with him.

“A _Hollywood_ agent,” she says, and there’s that _tone_ again, the _Russ-Agnew-what-have-you-gone-and-gotten-me-into-this-time_ tone. “Representing one Milt Chamberlain?”

Russ squeezes his forehead with one hand and rubs it with a pinched expression because _of course!_ Of fucking _course_ he had to go that extra mile and mouth off to a movie star, and they’re all about their precious _‘emotional distress’_ , and words like _‘libel’_ and _‘gonna sue you,’_ and what a morning Kim must have had listening to that oh he’s gonna get so busted for this.

“How the hell did you pull that off?” Guziewicz still sounds off, but not angry-off, something-else-off. Russ stops hiding behind his palm and stares at her warily.

“W—I—What?” he asks uncertainly. “What are you talking about?”

“He wants to _hire_ you, Russ,” she says, and Russ finally recognizes the ‘off’ part in her tone as astonishment as it hits him too.

“He **_what_** _?”_

And is quickly replaced by fury.

“As a consultant, apparently,” Kim says, and seems to find him, or maybe the whole idea of it, absurdly amusing.

“I’m not a consulting detective. I’m a _regular_ detective. Of Detroit PD!” Russ says in clipped sentences.

“That’s not what consulting detectives consult about either.”

“I don’t care! He wants to _hire_ me? Is that even _legal?_ _Can_ he hire me? I have a _job_. Here!” Russ flounders.

“Well, he _is_ prepared to donate to the Department a lot of money,” Kim mentions demurely.

“Oh, I bet Pritchett is just loving that,” Russ mutters. “Sure, let’s lease me out, what is this, a police department, or an escort service?”

Kim arches an eyebrow, and her face seems to say, _Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?_ And no! No he doesn’t!

“Russ. No one’s making you do anything. And of course this is all very strange and… unconventional.”

“You know what, call him up,” he interrupts. “I have some choice words for this agent to give back to that man.” He rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable. Come on. Call him.”

“Are you gonna behave?” Kim asks, fingers hovering over her phone.

“Oh I’m gonna,” he growls. “Call him up.”

Kim doesn’t believe in his good behavior even for a second. But she knew that before she asked.

“Yes, hello. This is Commander Guziewicz of Detroit PD? After some deliberation we will have to refuse your employer’s offer.”

“Put it on speaker, put it on—” he wrestles the phone out of her hands and she gives it up with an exasperation of a tired governess. “Hey! You tell your boss that you can’t buy people, and only giant _douchebags_ think that they can!”

“Russ!” Kim hisses. “The man is _paying_ us, for God’s sake! With or without your involvement. You should show a little more gratitude—you’re the one who has filed the most number of requests for funding.”

_“Please hold,”_ a nasal voice speaks into his ear on the other line.

“We don’t need his money!” he immediately rebuts.

“We need money period, Russ,” she is unperturbed by his outrage. “I don’t care whose pocket it’s coming from.”

The phone clicks again, coming alive. _“Detective Agnew!”_

Russ has to wince because _that voice_. That syrupy _cheerful_ voice belongs to Milt Chamberlain himself.

_“This is Milt Camberlain. We’ve met at the panel if you remember.”_

Kim looks up at him with humorous amusement. Russ raises one hand in a helpless _what-the-hell_ gesture.

“Of course I _remember_ , what are you, an idiot?”

Kim’s face falls abruptly and she glares at him murderously. Russ is too aggravated by this whole thing to care. Milt doesn’t seem offended and only chuckles.

_“So. My agent relays to me that you have some apprehensions about my offer?”_

“Your _offer_? Let me tell you where you can **_shove_** your offer!” Kim darts her hand forward like a snake and presses ‘Mute’ preventing Russ’s last words from being heard. He meets her eyes over the phone and she shakes her head at him sternly. He sighs in defeat and takes a deep calming breath.

“Are you kidding me with your offer?” he tries again. “You can’t just hire me from my department, we don’t provide that kind of a service. I am _a police detective_ , not your fitness trainer.”

He still sounds seething to his own ears, but his voice is even, and Kim nods at him magnanimously, acknowledging that this level of asshole must be passing her bar.

_“I know that. My offer isn’t to your department. It’s to you, one person to another. Would you consider working with me?”_

“You’re _paying_ my department! Seems kinda like you’re buying me from them,” Russ says.

_“Well, let me ask you this,”_ Milt says reasonably. _“If I offered to pay you, would you have taken my money?”_

“No!” Russ snaps.

_“But from what I can tell, you care deeply about your job. I’ve made some inquiries, I know you are underfunded. My money’s just a gesture of goodwill. You can take it as you want.”_

Kim raises her eyebrows, looking kind of impressed, and mouths _He got you there,_ and Russ hates that all of this sounds justified.

_“Well, listen,”_ Milt’s voice fills the silence. _“I am currently parked here, in Detroit. I’ll text you an address.”_ He pauses, giving Russ time to frown in confusion. Five minutes on the phone with the guy, he’s already exhausted.

“Text me _where_?” he growls.

His phone buzzes in response. He looks at it. There is a Detroit address blinking at him. And a smiley face, so that he’d _definitely_ be sure what freak sent it.

“How did you get my number?” he asks in a tone far less scandalous than this warrants because he’s beginning to suspect Milt Chamberlain, the favored scion of Hollywood, is like that in everything he does.

_“Your department head?”_

Russ closes his eyes. Fucking Pritchett.

“It’s against the law to distribute this sort of information,” he informs Milt dully.

_“Oh.”_ The actor sounds momentarily stumped, like it’s not common fucking knowledge. _“Well. I guess I must not seem like a terrorist. Can I expect you to come today?”_

“Yes,” Guziewicz volunteers him and earns his scalding glare that she is impervious too.

_“Excellent! I’ll see you soon then,”_ he says cheerfully, and cheerfully hangs up. And Russ thinks about cheerfully hanging himself.

 

 

~***~

 

 

Russ takes off his sunglasses, looks at the hotel entrance uncomfortably. The administrator seizes him up with a politely neutral expression, but Russ suspects he’s wondering what a man of his limited funds is doing here.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m here for Milt Chamberlain?” Russ asks, feeling like a fool.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone by that name,” the man replies expectedly, politely, and without even checking his logbook.

Russ looks at him and bangs his badge on the counter. “Police business,” he says. “He’s expecting me.” The man’s face falls and he hurries to pick up the phone, but Russ stops him with a devious grin. “What room is he in?”

It is satisfying to see Milt’s surprised expression as he comes up and knocks on his door, unannounced. “How did you get the maître d’hôtel to let you up here? He’s not supposed to.”

“Guess I must not seem like a paparazzi,” Russ parrots him in half-mockery half-anger, eliciting the actor’s surprised snort. “Look. What do you want with me? I’m here under orders and under duress, and what are you even hoping to get out of this?”

“What you said before got me thinking—that I might not come off as a real agent. I thought it’d be interesting to gain some first-hand experience, get into my role a little better. And oh look, I have _just_ made an acquaintance of a cop.”

“You’re an actor. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be a cop. What’s the most dangerous thing that happens to you, even? Bad press? I carry a gun. For a damn good reason.”

“I have a gun!” Milt says brightly, and his hand drops to the belt, bringing up his prop. Russ quells the instinctive response to go for his own weapon, and stares at him. His posture looks not half-bad.

“You brought it with you?” he asks flatly, rubbing his forehead.

“I’m getting used to the weight,” Milt shrugs.

“That’s your approach? The _weight?_ Don’t you think it matters more _why_ you carry it?”

“To shoot people.”

Russ wants to bang his head against the wall really hard. Either one of them. “Yeah. If I were in charge of giving out your weapon, I’d ban you for life for that sentence alone.”

“I’m an actor. The reasons come easy. The physical part is what I can train.”

Russ rolls his eyes, then crosses his arms on his chest. “Easy, huh? Well. Why are you a cop, then?”

That effectively shuts Milt up, and he stares at Russ, a little at a loss, and Russ can’t help thinking, _Thought so,_ when his phone rings. It’s Font, and Russ frowns.

“I gotta take this.”

_“Hey, man. You okay?”_ Font asks on the other end of the line.

“Why?” he grunts.

_“Just. We caught a case, but Goose said not to bother you?”_ Font says uncertainly.

“Oh no,” Russ rushes out, grateful for his friend’s curiosity. Guziewicz has relieved him from work for the day, but Font must have not been by the precinct yet and didn’t get the memo. “No no. _Bother_ me. What have we got?”

_“Two dead bodies. Cartel related, it appears.”_

“Text me the address, I’m on my way,” he rushes, hanging up.

“Have we got a murder?” Milt asks him, cocking his head with eager curiosity.

“ ** _We_** don’t get anything!” Russ snaps, waiting for the address impatiently. “ ** _I_** am the Detective here. You’re just a… fool playing dress-up.” He waves his hand dismissively and starts for the door.

“And this is exactly why I jumped at this opportunity,” Milt interrupts, following him. “I wanna see how policework is done. Just one case.”

Russ glares. “No. No case.”

“You can’t actually stop me from going.”

“Yeah I can. It’s called being charged on the obstruction of justice.”

“I paid a lot of money to your department. Pretty sure no one else will mind if I snoop around for a couple of days,” Milt says, kicking the floor with his foot in the _worst_ play at coyness this planet has ever seen, and honestly, how is this man even an actor?

They ride the elevator down in silence, and does this man _ever. not. smile?_ Then again, why wouldn’t he? He got his way, and he’s most certainly used to always getting his way, that’s how his types roll. With an acid feeling burning through his gut Russ is wondering how to shorten this sudden karmic punishment that he isn’t at all willing to suffer gladly but got stuck with nonetheless.

“Can I drive?” Milt asks as they exit the hotel with an eagerness Russ doesn’t understand.

He looks at his car stupidly. It’s clearly a piece of crap. “Why would you want to drive _my_ car?”

Milt lowers his sunglasses a little and gives him a sly look over them. “The sirens,” he says.

Russ stares at him humorlessly. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He raises his eyes to the skies. “Unbelievable.” He crawls into the driver’s seat and slams the door.

“ _What?_ ” Milt exclaims, like Russ is the one being unreasonable. “It’s every kid’s dream!” He joins him in the passenger seat. “Don’t try and tell me you weren’t excited the first time you got to turn the sirens on!”

“No! I wasn’t! I was in pursuit of a criminal! That wasn’t fun!”

“Oh.” Milt seems to recall the difference between real life and his bloody fucking tv show, and Russ rolls his eyes again because really? _Really?_ Where did this guy come from!

“You’ve got twenty minutes while we ride there to make your case on why you need my assistance, or whatever, and then I’ll tell you that you’re an idiot, and I will return to my life of actual _meaning_ , and you will return to your life of naïve privilege.”

Milt doesn’t seem at all disheartened by Russ’s ultimatum. Russ sighs and grips the wheel and thinks that this will be the longest twenty minutes of his life.

 

 

~***~

 

 

“Alright. Stay in the car,” he orders, with little hope of his instructions being followed.

Milt, surprisingly, offers little resistance. “Thank you, I think I’m gonna do just that. I’m not actually too keen to see a dead body.”

Which, yeah, makes sense, you have to have a stomach for it. The first time he was in a mourge he thought he’d throw up, and Funkhauser, he knows, definitely did.

Font greets him with a curious glance that Russ waves away. He’s not in the mood to even begin explaining the crazy day he’s had. He examines the corpse, then gives the nod for it to be carted away and listens to Font explain the details.

“Could be just an accident,” Font concludes, but something doesn’t sit quite right with Russ.

“Nah. I smell bullshit.”

“I think that’s just this alley.” Milt’s voice behind his back makes him freeze in cold dread. Font’s eyes widen comically as he blinks at the man, and Russ slowly turns around to stare at him, looking sharp-dressed and staggeringly out of place in this dumpster alley.

“I told you to stay in the car,” he says without inflection, not even angry any more at something as small and as predictable as this. “How did you even get this far?”

“I told them I was with you,” Milt waves his hand. “Gave an autograph. And I saw that the body was gone. Hi.” He smiles at Font and leans forward to shake his hand. “I’m Milt Chamberlain.”

“Yeah, I, um—” Font says eloquently, nodding mechanically as he shakes the man’s hand, and says nothing else, gives Russ a wild stare. Russ shakes his head. _Don’t ask._

“Carry on. Don’t mind me,” Milt assures him. “I’m here in a non-justice-obstructing way only.”

Russ rolls his eyes and is about to tell him to go back to the car, when their radios come alive. _“Suspect is fleeing through the second floor of the building towards the back entrance. I repeat…”_

And all Russ can do is bark, “Back to the car!” furiously, before he and Font rush into the building, each taking different stairways and chasing after whoever it was the officer saw.

The second floor seems empty when Russ emerges. The window looks temptingly like an exit point, but Russ approaches it slowly, checking every room, feeling his heart thrumming in his ears, in his veins. And then,

_“Stop, or I’m gonna shoot!”_

And also,

_“Drop your weapon, down on the ground.”_

The voice is coming from outside, and it isn’t Font’s voice, which would be fine, he doesn’t have to know every officer’s voice, but the thing is, he _does_ know the voice, and it sounds determined and unafraid, and it shouldn’t be. Russ freezes for a second, paralyzed and god-fucking-amazed at the sheer _gall_ , and the real fucking _stupidity,_ and then he darts towards the window and looks out, and sure as hell, there he is. Milt Chamberlain. Still playing pretend with a _fake goddamned gun._

He looks convincing, radiates confidence, and honestly, he must have a switch in his head or something that goes off and lets him imagine that it’s a movie reel, or that it’s reality where he _is_ Mr. Sharp-Dressed Agent. Lets him _believe_ it and stare at a man who is quite possibly a _murderer,_ or _crazy,_ you can’t predict _crazy people_ , and he is trying to stop him! Be a hero. And for a second he almost looks like he will succeed.

The other guy shows up from out of nowhere and drops him with a strike of a rifle butt to his head.

“Shit,” Russ curses, but doesn’t dare shout for them to freeze, doesn’t shoot.

“Let’s go,” the rifleman says to the first guy, and Russ picks up his radio, yells that they are getting away through this side alley, and they have a man down, goddammit. Then he crawls out onto the fire escape, and makes his way to Milt, cursing him all the way in language that would probably make him and his innocent Hollywood ears ignite with embarrassment.

“Milt? You fucking ass, I am going to fucking kill you myself when I get down.” He drops onto the asphalt and reaches him in quick strides. “Milt?”

“Ow,” he says, unscrewing his eyes, and Russ thinks cruelly that he wasn’t hit nearly hard enough for how **_stupid_** this has been. “This did not work out as badass as I thought it would,” he complains.

Russ laughs, and wants to punch him in the gut for scaring the shit out of him, but that’s pretty much like breaking insured property, he figures. He fishes out his radio and demands the ETA on that damned ambulance.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Milt asks from the ground, and still dares to appear charming.

Russ stares at him, because unbelievable, everything about this, him, fucking unbelievable, and he tries catching his breath, and shakes his head, and says nothing

 

 

~***~

 

 

Russ watches the ambulance nurse get her flirt on with Milt with exasperated lack of disbelief. His pool of being surprised is thoroughly depleted as far as this guy is concerned, and no further antics will astonish him. Her name’s Meredith, and she’s a little person, and Russ is wondering instead how they are letting her be on an _ambulance_ _duty_ with her _short_ -comings, but then again, this is the United States of freaking America, land of opportunity and all that.

She also turned out to be a fan.

“Of all the joints,” Russ mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. “I blame you,” he says to Font when he approaches him, eyes still wide and incredulous.

“What is going on here?” he demands, bewildered.

“He,” Russ nods towards Milt, trying to put it as succinctly as possible, “ _remembered_ me from the two times I went there for you.” He glares at Font. “And now he wants real police experience for his actor things. He’s gonna… shadow me for a few… something, I guess,” he exhales loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounds weary even to his own ears.

“Russ, that’s amazing!” Font punches him excitedly in the shoulder.

Russ gives him a dark look and doesn’t even try to begin arguing the point.

“Hey, I’m not your driver!” he hollers instead. “I don’t have all day.”

Milt looks at him and finally disengages from the ambulance and whatever and wherever he was heading with that nurse. She waves at him and mimics and mouths a very clear _Call me,_ and Milt laughs, charmed, waving back. Russ rips the door of his car open and slams it behind himself with a growl. Milt catches up with him in a few seconds.

“Am I driving you back to the hotel?” Russ asks through gritted teeth, chanting to himself: _not his driver, not his driver._

“Thank you,” Milt says in a deeply honest grateful voice which pacifies him a little. “Yes, I think that’s quite enough excitement for one day.”

Rolling out of the alleyway, Russ thinks of Font’s delighted expression and says, “So, listen. How about I introduce you to a detective in my precinct that actually wants to be saddled with you? With this?”

“Why? Don’t you think we’re off to a good start?” Milt smiles, and Russ can’t tell if that’s meant to be a joke, or if he’s serious. “That’s not necessary,” Milt adds. “I’m fine where I am.” He closes his eyes, relaxing in his seat, signaling that he considers the matter resolved, and Russ doesn’t say anything. Far be it for him to argue with irrational stupid people.

After a few minutes Milt perks up and asks, “Can we turn on the sirens now?”

Russ narrows his eyes in disbelief. “I already said no.”

“But I almost got shot!” Milt reminds him, in a bid for his lenience.

Russ only glares at him because that’s not the reminder he needs to feel more inclined. “Is everything a toy to you?” he sneers.

“No,” Milt says reasonably and smiles his very best, charming smile. “I just remember how to have fun once in a while.”

Russ looks at him suspiciously. “You’re one of _those_ guy, aren’t you? Those _handsy_ guys who want to play with every new gizmo they come across.”

“You know, you keep bringing it up—do you have something personal against top-notch tech?” Milt doesn’t even notice that Russ meant for his previous words to be mildly insulting and charges right back in.

“Just the idiots relying on it in everything. Last month we had a vic who literally died because he announced his whereabouts to his killer via twitter. So yeah. Fuck technology.”

That shuts Milt up, and for a while they ride in a silence that seems a little less grating now that Russ is developing a little immunity to the man’s brand of insanity, and Milt is looking to be actually, secretly, deep-down decent and capable of seriousness and some thought-process.

For a second the whole ordeal seems less of a punishment and just a very strange and odd thing to happen to a small town cop.

“So,” Milt breaks the silence, and Russ sighs and braces himself for more nonsense out of him. “You asked me before—” and then he stops, and sighs too, like he’s not looking forward to where this is going, and then all of a sudden he says, “My mother died when I was little.” Says it in a very matter-of-fact voice, and offers Russ a hint of an apologetic smile when he turns to stare at Milt, this _sorry-to-be-a-downer_ turn of a mouth. His fingers are doing a thing, twisting some wretched bit of paper, and his jaw is set stubbornly.

“Dad’s in jail,” he says and then chuckles humorlessly, meeting Russ’s eyes. “So there’s that.”

Russ keeps staring, at a complete and utter loss, and all he wants to do is shut Milt up because what is he doing, why is he saying all this, Russ didn’t ask him, doesn’t need this awkward moment of over-sharing and forced-bonding, but even he is not that big of an asshole to stop Milt now. There’s a sucking vortex of mild panic in the pit of his stomach.

“He says he was framed,” Milt says slowly, quietly. “I… _really_ want to believe that, like a sucker.” He chuckles again and tosses his head back with a sigh. “Not sure I do, though. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury definitely didn’t. Anyway, it’s, whatever.”

Russ looks at him and can’t comprehend what brought this on, except maybe a little he does, because in this moment Milt looks so stupidly starved for human contact that it’s no wonder he is ready to have a verbal breakdown in a car of someone who’s virtually a stranger.

“I’m just trying to be the best me that I can. Do some good.”

The pause lingers, and Russ clears his throat, tries to talk through the thick lump in his throat. “Good?” he asks, because Milt got him a little lost with that leap of logic.

“Mm-hm,” Milt nods. “If I were a man who slacked, things might have, I don’t know, turned out differently? But I don’t think the word _‘slack’_ is in my vocabulary, really, so here I am. Catching criminals.”

Russ feels the thickness in his throat turning into bile. He squeezes his jaw tightly to the point of pain, feels the muscles working, and then spits out, “Wait a minute. Is this—Are you in fucking character now?”

Milt looks at him, and all the gravitas seeps out of him in a matter of two seconds, all the traces of burden and pain vanish, and he’s smiling at Russ the easy pleasant smile of a man who never knew any kind of grief or heartache. “You asked me why I’m a cop. Is this a good enough reason?”

Russ stares at him, open-mouthed, and wow, there are career criminals who lie worse than this man who is just, what, apparently an inborn fucking actor, and _holy shit_. Russ has to remind himself that he’s driving, that he needs to keep his eyes on the road, but his mouth goes unpleasantly dry, and if he squeezes the wheel any harder he might break it, possibly like he wants to squeeze and break the bastard’s neck.

There’s no way he doesn’t know that for a second Russ bought it all. Ate it all up with a fucking spoon and a thank you.

And the thing is, he can’t even blame him. Because that’s his job. Russ has _seen_ him on screen, and thought him decent enough, hell, maybe _good_ even! Only that’s supposed to be on tv, and everything’s believable on tv, and this, this is something else. There’s _versatile_ , and then there’s Milt Chamberlain.

It is a powerful skill to have as an actor, what he does. But in real life Russ is looking at him and feels vaguely like he’s drowning. He thought that Milt could not pretend to be a cop, but he was wrong. He can pretend to be anyone he fucking wants, and Russ has no idea what to do with this revelation, how to act around this man when he knows he can never tell when he’s real about something. Not when he’s so good at lying about being honest.

“Russ?” Milt’s voice reaches him through the haze of his thoughts.

“Mm?” he raises his eyes at him, then blinks and stares back at the road. “Yeah,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s good enough.”

 


End file.
